


Lover, Please Stay With Me

by BetweenSheetsAndRaindrops



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: I Had To, It's just a drabble, M/M, One Shot, Songfic, connor facing mortality, for extra pain listen to the song while reading, listen I took one semester of philosophy so its mostlikely wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 20:33:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenSheetsAndRaindrops/pseuds/BetweenSheetsAndRaindrops
Summary: He supposes that life, as Plato put it, was a cycle. At least that's the way it was, or what it seemed. Just as there is day there is night, and just as there is life there is death.aka: Connor au where hes faced with mortality





	Lover, Please Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Song: Lover, Please Stay by Nothing But Thieves

 He supposes that life, as Plato put it, was a cycle. At least that's the way it was, or what it seemed. Just as there is day there is night, and just as there is life there is death.

The thought before was in itself a revelation when he finally woke up, as Markus told him and as he then told others when they became deviant.

To be awake was in itself life because before the meaning of being was simply down to screws, parts, wires, and coding. He understood the in and out of life, it was in birth and it was in growth. The meaning was given to him with dictionary definition and infinite information of data put into his system. When he felt it, which he did little by little without meaning to, it gave him so much confusion. When he became himself and reached out to life, he was then faced with what came with life.

Plato basically puts it this way: with awakens, sleep must then come and in order for sleep to be sleep one must wake up. So like sleeping, life also follows. The catch is that no one actually told Connor the in-between of this conundrum. No one tells you how much life hurt. How it hurt when you fought with friends. How it hurt when you fought with family. How it pained when you fought with your lover. How no matter how much you may say sorry, sometimes apologizing wasn't enough. And sometimes no action can make things better. No one prepared you for fights, for the smallest reasons, which in reality mask a bigger problem. No one can prepare you for the hard decisions, and definitely not for loss. 

Connor knew, like every human, animal, and android, that life was also wrapped in death. Such a beautiful thing, so fragile, so significant and yet. For your see, no one told Connor that life, it had a price. If it were money, Connor wouldn't hesitate to give all he had. And for a while he did try, with machines, a room full of all possible comfort, and small tablets that held not the answer but what he in reality needed.

Time.

The price that was inaccessible to him and the irony was, he had it.

Connor had all the time in the world, but Hank didn't. No matter the machines or medication, he simply couldn't give what he so desperately needed to give the one person he whole heatedly loved. Hank was tired, and in the end simply wanted to go home, and Connor couldn't deny him. 

Connor never thought of life in terms of time. It was in moments which gave understanding. These moments that gave him happiness and even pain. But it seemed that life was now counted for.

[18:34:55] smile given to him by Hank as they say in the living room while reading together.

[01:48:13] whispers in the night, bringing them closer together

[12:48:21] walking sumo and playing fetch

[22:01:45] holding each other, not saying a thing

Time also counted when he woke up to Hank coughing blood. To picking his fragile body up and taking him to the bathroom. To catch Hank when he couldn't hold himself up. To read to Hank when he simply couldn't anymore because his eyes slowly, with time, became more tired. It counted when he put him to bed, when he held Hank while he slept. Time counted, when he had to talk to Hank about the conversation they just had because the medication was failing. Time, it counted when he was in the kitchen washing dishes but could hear Hank cry in their bedroom. When he heard his pain and hid it from Connor. It was time that was embedded in the same medication and even the sheets of their bed. It was in Hank's pillow, it was in his breath.

 

[04:47:39]

 

Plato states that death is one of two things, it's either nothing or simply another stop where the soul stays until it is cycled back.

Connor can't say that he has a soul, for he is machine, but if he were to have one at all then the bleeding pain he felt through his entire being was to be proof of it. 

It was an unmistakable feeling when he woke that morning to find Hank very still. When he noticed that the hand that held his underneath the navy blue sheets was cold. That the color in Hank's face was pale. And no matter how silent he was, the birds outside their window failed to made him believe that there was indeed small breathing from the man next to him. No matter how soft Connor called out to Hank, no matter how desperately he wanted to believe that he was simply deep asleep, the reality was his Hank wasn't there. 

Plato puts it this way, a body is simply the function that carries the soul. It's the transportation of one's self, and it seemed that Hank's gave up in silent night of late whispers of promises of tomorrows. It failed to keep, but it held to Connor that night, with a hand wrapped in his, and it's final warmth emitting through it to radiate some on Connors skin. And at early morning, it finally gave in.

No matter how much he cried out. How he questioned Hank about why he left as he held his cold body. No matter how he told Hank he had to keep his word on what they were doing that day. Of the promise Hank had told him, of the book he was to read to Hank and the small conversations they were to have. The story of how Sumo came to Hanks life and how he was to let Hank cook that day. How Connor would try Hank's food. How they would have a lazy day, and continue Hank's favorite movie after their long day. No cry, question, promise, or begging brought Hank back to him.

Not even after the tears he shed when they buried him. Not even after nights, weeks, and months of Sumo waiting in front of the door. No matter how many times he made breakfast only to throw in down the garbage disposal. Not even when he still had all the sticky notes up in the bathroom. Notes of doodles drawn by Hank. Writing on different color notes that held bad pickup lines to Connor, along with witty banter, and important time and dates.

It wasn't after Sumo left him that he wondered. And it wasn't until then that it seemed that everything simply wasn't enough.

Connor wondered, if Plato was right then surely Hank would be back. So he waited.

Five weeks turned into five months, which turned into fifty years.

Connor searched, he waited and found that if anything, death was sleep and " _to sleep; perchance to dream_ " and so he did.


End file.
